(Blood and Bone, #1) Blood and Bone (12 page)

My skin shivers. How is all this possible?

I pull back from him, distancing myself from his words as he continues to speak softly, as if the quiet of his voice will mask the horror of his words. “The CIA recruited me when I was twenty-five. I became a cleaner.” He lifts his face, smiling blankly. “I loved my job.” He winces. “Until I was assigned a girl, a woman named Samantha Barnes. I came to your town, watched you and researched you. I met your father and your aunt. I met every person I could find who knew you, but every piece of the puzzle and every step of the way made me feel something I didn’t understand. I found myself watching you for hours. Simple things like sleeping and eating and even bathing. I became obsessed with every aspect of who you were. I realized then I was in love with you. I couldn’t kill you any more than I could kill myself.” His words and unsteady grip on the box fill me with fear. A new type of fear, one I have never felt.

My head moves back and forth slowly, refusing to believe anything he says.

He offers me a weak look. “When I found out I was set up and you were my mark so you could bring me in, I was devastated. You were bait, a trap. The CIA had no more need of me. I’d been seen, recognized by someone. They didn’t want me dead, they wanted me alive.”

I laugh, aghast and confused. “That’s ridiculous. Why would they want you alive?”

“They knew if I died the world would know everything I knew.” His eyes narrow. “I’ve always been one to keep insurance policies on the jobs I’ve done. They know me too well to kill me off without a guarantee that I’m not leaking information to the wrong people.”

I shake my head. “I don’t understand what any of this has to do with how we got here.”

He switches on the bedside lamp, places the box in my lap, and gets up, leaving the room. I stare at it, unable to move for a moment. The name on it is Samantha Barnes.

Lifting a shaky hand, I open it, only to be increasingly stunned and scared by its contents. Truly scared.

The first image is like meeting a twin sister for the first time, after twenty years of separation. The girl looks like me, but she can’t be me. There is no way.

She has blonde hair and so much makeup on that it scares me, literally. Her face is perfect and glossed with enough makeup to frost a cake. The second photo is black-and-white, and even still I can see she isn’t me. There is no way. She looks loud and cocky, just with her expression. The confidence and air of her is smarmy—something I don’t think I could be, even if I were acting. Her thin body has hardly a stitch of clothing on, and shoes that look like they would break a back. She is walking through an alley, holding her sunglasses and staring back at someone, the photographer, maybe. She looks like she is about to smile or she knows a secret. I shake my head, muttering into the dim light, “That’s not me.”

Flipping through the photos is like watching a movie, one I couldn’t possibly be the star of, and yet there I am. Blonde, brunette, redhead. They are like the photos in the folder Rory gave me, but worse. These are of me on jobs, real jobs. There are photos of me not working too. Ones where I am sitting in a café with no makeup and hair in a ponytail, contemplating life and whatever else a girl like that thinks about. He has shots of me washing dishes in my kitchen and sleeping in my bed.

It makes me sick to think I didn’t know. He was always there.

The last thing in the box is a camera. It’s small and cheap looking. I turn it on, clicking through the photos. They’re all of him. He has very dark hair and a paler complexion. He looks like he’s from the East Coast in these photos. He’s walking and eating and
drinking and reading. He’s in hotels and a house, and I see now I invaded his space as much as he did mine. I was watching him and he was watching me, and I suspect we might have fallen in love this way, through a lens.

I flip to the next picture, but it’s a video, not a photo. My body grows cold as I press “play” and brace myself for the unknown.

The video starts with me recording myself. My hair is bright blonde, and I have dark-red lipstick on. I lick my lips and whisper, “I don’t know what’s going to happen, but you need to do this. You need to choose love or a job. If you’re watching this, then you’ve discovered who we were. I’m sorry for that. It’s not a perfect world, and the possibility you would find out was always there.” My eyes have a look in them, a look like I am desperate, but I don’t believe the emotions behind the expression. “You love him, and you want to become someone new, trust me. I want Samantha Barnes to die.” Old me smiles at the camera, and I don’t believe a word she’s spoken. She looks behind her, nervously. But I can see she’s holding the camera up to show something beyond the face she’s making. She’s showing me something. She looks back. “Don’t ever go back. Trust me.” The video ends, and I am convinced she wants me to go back.
I
want me to go back. I just don’t know where back is, but I do know the look in those eyes. Something about this video changes everything. I place the camera back in the box, overwhelmed and scared.

He comes back into the room, kneeling in front of me and placing a cold hand over mine. “I’m sorry you have to go through this. Neither of us ever wanted you to find out. We wanted a fresh start.”

“Why did you lie when I started figuring it out?” My words are breathy and weak.

He squeezes my hand. “Jane, we wanted you to stay hidden from that world. We both wanted to be free of the people we were. Neither of us ever wanted the past to catch up with us. We knew it was possible, but we didn’t want it.”

“But you continued killing people, even after the fresh start?”

“It’s not something I could quit.” He has no excuse for himself. “Not even for you. Believe me, I tried. Going back to it is what kept us both alive.”

My mouth is dry and my heart is pounding. I shake my head, not even wanting to talk about his murders or what kept me alive. “How did you do it? How did you take my memories?” I change the subject.

He nods. “Surgery. We performed a surgery to mimic a brain injury and give you amnesia. I’m so sorry. I wish to God we never had to have this conversation.” His face is sad and guilty.

“You operated on my brain? That’s the scar on my head at the back?”

He presses his lips and finally speaks softly. “We have to do it again. We can’t stay here. We have to start over again. That’s what you said. If you ever found out, you wanted us to start over again.”

The reality of the situation and what he’s threatening me with make my eyes water. He is going to make it all go away again. As much as I wished for it only moments ago, now that I’m faced with it, I don’t think I want that. I don’t know what to do.

He shakes his head. “Don’t think about it tonight, just try to get some sleep. We’ll leave tomorrow. I’ve made certain we won’t be followed this time.” His eyes suddenly have come alive with hope and something else that sparkles in the dim light. “Do you still love me, Jane?”

I want to shove him back and scream that he’s not my boyfriend and I never want to see him again. I want to panic and freak out that he’s performed some kind of brain surgery on me and sedated me every night. I want to do a thousand things, but I don’t get the chance.

He swallows. “Baby, I’m still me, and you are you. I still love you.”

My lower lip trembles. “Are you sure you understand what love is?” The words are harsh, and considering the things I now see are wrong with him, they might have been a mistake.

“I can’t live without you.”

I want to tell him I don’t imagine I’ll live long
with
him. I want to tell him several things that never leave my lips.

“Do you love me?” He asks it as if he’s confused. I don’t answer because I can’t. I do love him, but I don’t want this. I don’t want to have brain surgery and have my mind erased again. He nods slowly, backing away from me. “Don’t worry, baby, I can love you enough for both of us.” He says it with a smile, but that doesn’t take the chill off the true meaning in the sentence.

I turn my face to the window as he closes the door. I see how it is with clarity like I never have before. I now see I will never get away.

Not without killing him first.

He’s too smart and too thorough, and I’m afraid he’s in control, even when I think he’s lost it. In my mind, if he had wanted a fresh start he would have stopped killing. To top it all off, I don’t believe I made that video for any reason other than to give myself a clue without being obvious.

8. SEE JANE RUN

H
e doesn’t sleep with me. He gives me space, or holds me hostage. I’m not sure which it is. But the moment I hear him snoring on the couch, I am up instantly and pulling on my clothes. I leave the nightgown in the bed on the pillows I stuff and pull up. It looks like I am sleeping, but maybe a little chubbier. I turn the lock on the door softly, listening to the hallway for a moment.

When I hear nothing but his snoring, I grab my phone and creep to the window, opening it and looking out. I toss my slippers onto the grassy ground of our backyard below.

The wind comes in the window, pushing me back. I sigh, hating the second-story height, and climb up onto the sill. The ledge is narrow and the wind is strong.

I grip the siding with my sweaty palms and shuffle with my bare feet along the chilly ledge. The wind pushes at me, flipping my hair and ruffling my clothes—and sanity. My hands slide along the cold building until I get to a corner. I climb along the corner to where there is a roof below me. It’s the one over the basement stairs. I take
a breath, force away my disbelief, and jump the fifteen feet down to the grass. My knees buckle, and I roll until I’m lying on my belly, nearly kissing the filthy grass. I can’t believe I made it out. Getting up quickly, I jog to my slippers and slip around the far side of the yard to the fence. It backs onto a huge apartment complex. I run through the parking lot to a garage.

My feet hardly make a sound as I creep into the garage. I lift the door handles on the cars parked in there until one makes a clicking sound that is like angels singing to me. I sit in the driver’s seat and look at the steering wheel, running my hands up and down it. Nothing comes back to me. I remember the movies I’ve seen and look around the car, flipping the visor and feeling around the different places, but there is no key. I sigh and glance down where there should be a keyhole, but there isn’t one. Instead, there’s a strange button with the word “start.” I press the button and the engine starts, making me almost jump out as I look around for the owner of the car. After a minute with no one coming, I back the car out of its space and down the quiet street, assuming it’s a remote starter of sorts.

I look down at the starter button, shaking my head.
What moron puts a push start in an unlocked car?

The question is answered a mile down the road when the car randomly stops. It must have a radius it can run in but stops when the key is no longer in range.

I run along the streets of the residential area, lifting the door handles on every car I pass until I come across one that opens. I climb in, letting my mind go blank, and reach down, tearing the wiring and spark-starting it like a criminal. Wait—that’s not the term for it. Hot-wiring. I can hot-wire!

Jesus!

I drive as far as the car will go, four hours out of Seattle. The car runs out of gas in the city limits of Spokane. I leave it on the side of
the road and start the trek to the city. I am exhausted and starving again by the time I get within a few blocks of the downtown area.

I have no money, no food, no clothes, and no shoes. I am on the run, but I’m not sure what I’m running from or to.

I bite my lip and look around the street, catching a glimpse of myself in the window of the store I am next to. My image distorts, and I see her, the blonde. She smiles at me, dangling a cherry from her lips. She takes a bite of it. It’s seductive and ballsy. Neither of which I am.

I need to go back. I don’t even know where back is, but I need to go there. She was trying to tell me something. I pull my phone from my pocket and dial 911. It’s the only option I can reasonably think of.

“Miss me already?” I can see the smug-ass grin on his face just by hearing his voice.

“Rory, I’m in trouble.”

He scoffs. “I coulda told ya that.” He chuckles, but I can tell it’s an exhausted laugh. “Sam, where are ya?”

“Spokane.”

“I’ll be there in three hours. Can you hold tight? Meet me at the bus station, and ditch that phone. He’s tracking it for sure.” He hangs up, leaving me there with that. Nothing, really.

He won’t be here for hours, and I’m stuck in a city with no food.

But I’m not the feeble girl I was a week ago.

I’m a survivor.

I turn and drop the phone off the bridge I’m on and walk up a street called S Coeur Dalene St. It’s a bit dodgy at the bottom near the bridge, but as I climb the hill it gets better. When the concrete changes to red bricks, the houses become a mixture of stunning and estate-like or small family homes. The area looks like it once was older but now is being upgraded with newer and bigger homes. I find a house with no cars out front and no people walking about, making shadows inside. I don’t look around like I’m guilty. I just walk
into the backyard like this is my house or I have directions from the owners. The backyard is immaculate, much like those of the other houses in the neighborhood would be.